


Ayin Tachat Ayin

by Abyssalzones



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherly Affection, Drinking, Eye Trauma, Ford's got an eyepatch, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda. Neither of them are great at it, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Semi-graphic eye gouging, Stan is difficult and so is Ford, Vomiting (brief), ouch. sorry, those two things arent related somehow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27404689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssalzones/pseuds/Abyssalzones
Summary: "An eye for an eye" (Biblical Hebrew: עַ֚יִן תַּ֣חַת עַ֔יִן)An examination of a few moments related to and revolving around Ford losing his eye.(NO st*ncest or b*llford interaction)
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Kudos: 34





	Ayin Tachat Ayin

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, covered this in the tags but just in case; CW for some semi-graphic eye loss in upsetting circumstances, very non graphic mention of vomiting, and Bill being... himself.

“ _Come on Sixer, don’t be so selfish!”_

 _  
_Liquid fear ran like ice through Ford’s veins as he was held in place. He could hardly say he was on anything you could describe as a floor, since the colors and space that warped and twisted around him didn’t allude to anything _solid_ beneath him, but regardless he knew his back hurt from being pressed into something flat and cold. 

“ _After all, you’re the one who REALLY messed everything up- but don’t sweat it, I’m not the type to hold a grudge. Scout’s honor!”_

Above him, a plane of void, eyes, hands. Bill had no need to hide what he truly was, here, in _his_ domain.

  
He could remember this feeling. Ford could remember the last time he’d been so helpless, and how it had made him think of frogs from his biology course that were pinned to their cold trays- cut and held open, vulnerable to the ministrations of a scalpel. 

Ford was unsure if he could handle a repeat of last time. He’d woken up then, in his study, terrified and violently ill- blood had burst in his eye, and he could only watch as it stained the pages of his journal- but there wasn’t going to be a moment where he would wake up this time.

  
  
_Because this isn’t a dream. This is real- and it’s all your fault._

Running on instinct, he prepared himself for the worst. _Shut down your fear. Close it out. Nisi corpore, necesse mente. Mind over matter;_ A mantra he had repeated to himself often, his last true anchor to the realm of sanity. He had frozen, waiting for an onslaught of his worst nightmares, punishment for his _failure_ \- but it didn’t come as he’d expected it to.

  
Instead, Bill’s voice cut through the air like a knife. _“I’ve got a gift for you pal, a_ ** _real_** _gift-- a little change in perspective.”_ He had no breath, but Ford swore he was being smothered in hot air.

  
He dared to speak while he still had the chance. “W-what?” The sound of his own voice cracking upset him more than it should have.

_“Don’t be so coy, IQ! You’ll see what I mean--”_ He winked, an exaggerated movement of his one eyelid. “- _Or maybe you won’t.”_

Before he could begin to process what was happening, Ford felt a cold hand clamp around the back of his neck. It held him in place, grip threatening to break skin that suddenly felt paper thin beneath the iron grasp- and pain shot through every nerve in his body as Bill broke through his open eye with a claw.

And he _screamed._

He’d made a point previously to not let Bill see him cry, to never give him the satisfaction of such a reaction- but the dam broke as Ford cried out mindlessly to whatever force in the universe was listening. In that moment, all he could process was the violent intrusion of the cold digit, taking its time to dig in and hollow him out. It was as if any moment, he would push far enough that he’d find the exposed flesh of his brain- and he could only hope that then- _then-_ his suffering would be brought to an end. 

Even if it meant his life along with it.

It was no relief once Bill tore the length of his claw out of the cavity that had once been Ford’s left eye. His pain only seemed amplified by the sudden removal as he allowed himself to heave and bleed out onto the tile floor that didn’t exist. His stomach churned.

A silver tongue slithered out from under Bill’s eye, and he used it to clean the viscera off his finger and hand. Ford’s neck had been released, but by the time he tossed his head to look away the image had already burned itself into his mind. _  
  
_

_“What’d I tell you? Whole new perspective! Maybe you’ll even appreciate my way of seeing things a little more now.”_ His sharp laughter flooded Ford’s pounding skull like a thousand chittering insects, buzzing in every crater of his mind.

_Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Please, let me wake up--_

* * *

Gasping for air, Ford awoke to find himself on the futon in his room. His hair clung to his face, and the turtleneck he’d fallen asleep in was damp with sweat. 

Under normal pretenses he could ease himself out of the incoming panic- he had practiced slow breathing techniques for years, and relied heavily on keeping his fear under control for survival before- but in the throes of a nightmare so vivid it was _painful,_ he was steadily losing a fight to stop his own hyperventilating. 

So instead, he got up, stumbled out of his room on shaky legs, and purged the contents of his stomach in the bathroom. 

And that was a little better.

He’d barely eaten yesterday ( _Stanley had begun insisting on at least one meal a day, and it was difficult to lie to a conman)_ but the taste in his mouth was more rooted in reality than anything else- foul, but not more so than the dryness he’d woken up to. Ford lingered only for a moment, eventually pulling himself up to make his way back to his room before-

“Hey Sixer.”

  
  
_Shit._

Ford flinched, and then immediately regretted it. Leaning against the wall was Stanley, arms crossed, and it reminded him faintly of the unimpressed silhouette of their father whenever they’d been caught up past their bedtime as children. He thought absently that he’d rather be hit than have to put up with any attempt at conversation right now- not with his twin, who could no doubt see right through him.

“Stanley.” His voice was hoarse, and he not-so-subtly cleared his throat in an attempt to salvage it. 

“That it? You not gonna talk to me?” 

“It’s a little late for idle conversation.” The truth, even if it could never be applied to him.

Stan made a noise that was less like a scoff and more like an aggravated “ _peh,”_ and Ford took that as his cue to escape. 

He didn’t get far before his brother spoke again. “I heard you screaming, y’know.” 

Ford froze, but tried not to give away his concern as it must’ve shown on his face. He was grateful he was turned away. 

When he didn’t respond, Stan continued. “Look, I know we’re not- on _great_ terms, but you- you can talk to me, Ford.”

  
  
If he had less self control, he would’ve laughed. _If only you had any idea how wrong you are._

“Goodnight, Stanley. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

* * *

Ford had thought the fez on its own was ridiculous before, but it truly had nothing on the performer his brother turned into when the “ _Mystery Shack_ ” was fully in swing.

Usually, barring rare circumstances, he kept to himself in the basement or his old bedroom- when sleep demanded his attention. He hadn’t had the opportunity to see Stan operating as _Mr. Mystery_ until then, when Mabel had insisted he have his first real breakfast in the house. (He had a difficult time saying no to her- not when she had gone out of her way to make pancakes herself. According to his niece, they were supposed to be smiley-faces. He could hardly see the resemblance, but it was a welcomed change from his own cooking, as he had a tendency to burn most things.)

He’d been finishing off his coffee when Stan had strolled into the kitchen, flipping a pancake onto a plate. “Jee-sus, I’m starved. Good thing that kid knows how to work the oven without burnin’ down the house.”

  
Ford fought the impulse to roll his eyes at how his brother didn’t hesitate to stuff his mouth. He’d absently been eyeing Stanley while sipping his coffee when he’d stopped, nearly choking. _You have got to be kidding me._  
  


“Nice fake eyepatch. _Very_ classy.” He said it without really sneering, but his brow was set firm into a displeased scowl. 

To his credit, Stan did stop to swallow before he spoke. “Oh c’mon, don’t be like that Sixer- it’s my brand!” He waved his fork around as he made his point. “Besides, how was I supposed to know you’d go and get yourself a pirate eyepatch in sci-fi space Hell?”

Ford didn’t want to shout, so instead he got up and poured the remnants of his coffee into the sink. “I’ll be in the basement.”

_And stop calling me Sixer,_ he wanted to add, but didn’t.

* * *

“This might sting- try not t’ flinch.”

Ford was more focused on the hand keeping him steady by the shoulder than the peroxide-soaked cloth as it was pressed into the cut above his brow. He tensed at the slight sting, but didn’t flinch. 

“How many times have you done this for me before, do you think?” It was an attempt to lessen the upset of the atmosphere more than anything.

  
  
Fiddleford took away the cloth, placing it aside to get out another bandage from their steadily dwindling supply. “Too many to count. ‘Specially with my memory.”

He continued the train of thought as he undid the paper wrapping of the bandage, carefully placing it along the cut. “Knowin’ how eager you are to run towards danger? Hundreds of times, at least.”

At that, he could only quietly laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

Originally, Ford had insisted he could take care of his own injuries- but he’d been quickly outvoted by his own family. The red fog had dissipated from the sky as quickly as it had appeared, but the shaking hadn’t left his legs and hands. In fact, it only seemed further exacerbated without the fate of the world at stake. 

With the younger twins making an attempt at sleeping in the living room, Ford felt much less worried about the possibility of concerning either of them. As young as they were, for all that they’d done, they deserved rest- not further worry. 

They were all injured, but nothing immediately threatened their safety for once, which was a welcome change in pace. Mabel and Dipper had taken turns applying a seemingly endless supply of colorful bandages decorated with cartoon characters to one another- and, with some persistence, to Stan. 

They all had injuries. Ford had been kept from the brink of death at Bill’s whim alone.

Stan, of course, had taken one look at him, half ready to collapse, and practically ordered him to sit in the kitchen. It was the familiar brand of care that he recognized only in Stanley, who always seemed personally slighted when Ford wasn’t taking care of himself. All the “ _I’m fine, Stanley”’_ s in the world couldn’t dissuade him until Fiddleford had assured he could handle things himself. He preferred this- it was much quieter now, and he didn’t feel quite so fussed over.

Ford was still sure his brother hadn’t gone far. 

Fiddleford’s voice interrupted the comfortable silence of the kitchen. “Your eyepatch should probably be cleaned.” Not an untrue statement, nor something that should’ve carried as much weight as it did- but he could still feel the old ghostings of his unease at the idea.

  
  
Until just then, he’d all but forgotten he was still wearing it. “Ah, right. I can get it- hang on.” 

It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable without it- not now, in the comfort of his home- but more often than not, it changed the atmosphere of the room when it was removed. The scar left behind was an ugly thing, jarring and upsetting in its implications, and Ford had fought to spare his loved ones the unpleasant sight as often as possible.

Fiddleford had already surprised him before, when he’d asked to see. Not a demand, nothing prying or expectant- something so genuine and caring he’d wondered if he was dreaming. ( _Then again, his dreams were rarely so kind_.)

Then, as it was now, had been no dramatic revelation. He’d simply said “ _It’s nice- to see your whole face again.”_

He kissed him then, and Ford’s heart nearly burst at the seams.

There was an argument to be made that he hardly felt _whole._ Surely, there was a part of him missing that he felt he would never retrieve- but in that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

As Ford brought away the eyepatch, Fiddleford took it in his own hand, holding his other to the side of his face. “I’m- I’m glad you’re alive, y’know. Wasn’t so sure we’d make it this time.”

His smile is tired, weary beyond words, but full of warmth. “I’m glad we did.”

* * *

The last week of summer had arrived, and the older pair of twins had been spending the humid evening reminiscing on the porch. Ford was well aware he shouldn’t be drinking, but he found himself doing so anyway. He’d historically had a much better tolerance than most after thirty years of drowning his sorrows with an array of interdimensional booze- but he has potential seizures to worry about, now. ( _No more scaring his family. Not after last time._ )

Regardless, after all the stress, the fear, the uncertainty- he’s finding himself enjoying the quality time. Part of him deeply wishes he could’ve had this sooner.

“Christ, I’m just glad to not be wearing that stupid fez in this weather anymore. Probably why my hair’s thinning so much faster than yours.” Stan snorts, arms folded over the banister. 

Ford turns his head to give his brother a mock-indignant look, “You need to get your eyes checked- my hair doesn’t thin.”

“Yeah? Bet it’s because you use some fancy shampoo from space or somethin’. Wouldn’t put it past you at this point.”

He gets a shove at his arm for that, but both of them are laughing.

“But really, I’m sure Soos’ll be much happier as Mr. Mystery than I was. Sure, it was fun, and I’m a hell of a performer when I need to be-- hey, don’t look at me like that-- but that part of my life’s over.” 

Ford half-nodded, taking a swig of the cheap beer Stan had brought out. This was too mild to do much of anything to him, but it was a welcome buzz.

“And, uh, I’m sorry about the- the eyepatch thing.”

Ford coughs on his drink, thoroughly caught off guard. He sputters for a second before getting out a confused, “W-what?”

  
  
“That stupid shit I said about the eyepatch-- your eye.” Stan sniffed, rubbing his nose. “Was fucked up of me. Didn’t have a great idea of what you were dealing with-- hell, I still don’t! But-- ‘s not an excuse. There’s a lot of shit I wish I didn’t say, all because I was acting like a damn child.” 

And Ford is- well, taken aback. For starters.

He wants to say _“It’s fine,”_ because it’s a habit, and he’s not about to say _“I forgive you.”_ It’s not about forgiving him, not like he’s been majorly slighted- because Stan had no idea- _has_ no idea. 

So instead of saying either of those, he unties the eyepatch, and looks down at it when it's in his hand. “I never told you how I lost my eye. You couldn’t have possibly known. I’m not saying I wasn’t upset- but it’s not really your fault.” 

“It was Bill, right?” 

The question isn’t unexpected, but the name alone infects the air.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was, ah- right after I… fell in the portal.” The actual words are “ _was pushed,”_ but he spares Stan the guilt. 

“He wasn’t happy with me. Completely gouged it out.” 

The way he says it makes it sound like a mundane statement, and Stanley feels something close around his heart like a vice. Guilt, maybe. Anger, definitely.

Either way, he cringes at the thought. There’s not much he can say to make up for it- for the horror of everything that’s happened in the past thirty years- and he lacks a way with words. He simplifies it, and lets his emotion bleed through. “I really hate that stupid fuckin’ triangle.”

Ford laughs, almost. “Yes, well.” He has to think about it for a second. “He’s dead. That nightmare is over.” 

And Stan is incredulous, that much is obvious, but Ford wants to believe what he’s said is true. To believe, for a second, that he can move on- that they can all move on. 

Stan lifts his drink. “Glad he’s dead.”

  
  
Ford returns the favor. “Absolutely.”

**Author's Note:**

> I write every fic for ME and MY indulgent concepts


End file.
